


Strife

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Nadadel [12]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Brothers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Grief, Hugs, Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5130647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains





	Strife

 

He meets Fóli again the next day. He doesn't usually go near the tavern, he's had no reason since Mammy died, but now he has a reason. 

 

The air is smoky and smells familiar, sounds familiar. He half-expects to see his father nursing a pint of ale, though he knows that he is being foolish. He sees a dark head and goes toward the Dwarf he sees. 

 

"Fóli?"

 

The dark-haired Dwarrow turns and smiles. Behind Fóli's back, Glóin sees his hand slip a purse into his bulging pocket. "Hello! Have you made up?"

 

Now, Fóli seems in a discrete hurry to leave the tavern. Behind him, a craggy Dwarf rises, reaching into his satchel. He frowns and grumbles, delving deeper. The last thing Glóin hears him say as Fóli leads him from the tavern is; "Some bastard's nicked me wallet!"

 

As they stroll away, Glóin peers up at Fóli. His brother's question now echoes through his mind. Surely... Surely Fóli didn't...No. The Dwarf had been drunk, he'd probably just lost it and thought it stolen. Still, he wonders.

 

"Fóli?"

 

"Mmm?"

 

"How old are you?"

 

Fóli laughs. "We've known each other all of two days and you are already asking personal questions! I'm eighty-three, if you must know."

 

"What's your craft?"

 

Fóli peers down at him. "I'm a seller. I sell objects I obtain."

 

Glóin wonders about asking him how these objects are 'obtained', but he finds he doesn't need to as a voice suddenly bellows:

 

"Boy!!" Fóli pauses and swivels around. He now faces the craggy Dwarf who is squinting in a bleary fashion at them both. "Righ'. You an' t'little lordlin'... M'al's stones, y'got a lor''s boy involved in yer games?... Righ', y'pale bast'd, give it back now!"

 

Fóli is surprisingly calm. "Give what back?"

 

"Y'know f'king well wha', y'louse! My wallet!"

 

Fóli shrugs apologetically. "Don't know what you're talking about."

 

"I'll buckin' figh' yer, I swear!" The Dwarf takes a staggering step forward, giant fists clenched. 

 

"Now, then," says Fóli, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. "Calm down. There's a lord's son present. It would do no good to brawl in front of him. We want to set a good example, don't we?"

 

The Dwarf, whose entire body seems to waver drunkenly, stares at Fóli and lurches toward him, fists raised. "Se' a good bleedin' 'xample?! Yer a fine 'un t'talk, yer thief! I'll rip all yer limbs off an' tourniquet 'em with yer straggly beard, yer filthy scummy bastard!"

 

The Dwarf seems serious about his threats and Glóin pulls Fóli's sleeve to at least make him get out of attack range. Fóli shrugs at the Dwarf and turns. The other, drunken, Dwarrow lunges at him, pulling at the bulging pocket. 

 

No less than three purses fall into the ground, each accompanied by a heavy clinking sound. Fóli sighs and shakes his head. "Now, look what you've done!"

 

It is these words that prove too much for the already angered Dwarf to take. He runs at him and grabs him around the waist, hurling him to the ground. Fóli gets up and there's a sudden, frightening gleam in his hand. Glóin knows what can go on between brief enemies on the streets, despite the attempts of all to keep it a secret from him, but he has no wish to see blood spilt before his very eyes and gets in the middle of the warring Dwarves. 

 

"Don't," he says. He doesn't want to sound young and pleading, like a whining child. He tries to keep his voice steady, but the thought of seeing another corpse worries him so that his voice wavers. He hasn't thought much of seeing his father after his death. Now he remembers how cold, pale and lifeless his father was and wishes beyond anything that he could be here to help him stop Fóli and the other Dwarf from fighting. 

 

He doesn't know what to do.

 

Luckily, they listen. Fóli kicks the wallet toward the Dwarf, who scoops it up and ambles away, grumbling about 'g'ards'en'.

 

He shivers. But he isn't afraid of Fóli, thief or not, and he looks him in the eye. "Fóli?"

 

"Now you know," Fóli says. "My craft is thievery. I have no other choice."

 

Glóin remembers his father telling him of times before he was born. Of 'borrowing' dead game from hunters, of taking unguarded eggs from chicken coops, of taking coins from wishing fountains. We didn't want to," Da always said, his eyes downcast at this point of his tales. "But we had to do it to survive."

 

"Oh. Well, you're not bad at it. But keeping them all in your pockets like that isn't very bright of you."

 

Fóli sticks out his tongue. On it glitters a tiny malachite jewel. "Don't follow in my footsteps. I dread to think what your family might do to us both if you turn rogue."

 

"So do I!"

 

Fóli grins down at him. "Go on home, little lord. I heard him grumbling about guardsmen and I happen to know one of your kinsfolk is a guardsman. He wouldn't be best pleased to find you with one of my kind."

 

"Can I see you again?" Glóin asks. 

 

"Of course. But don't boast about it to people."

 

This is good advice. Glóin says his farewells to Fóli and hastily leaves, taking the long way home. He feels shivery, now. He knows his father highly disliked it when people stole from the poor. Indeed, he didn't like it, himself, and the Dwarf who had his wallet taken wasn't one of the wealthier villagers of Ered Luin. He wonders what his father would do if he knew that he was becoming friendly with a thief. At first, he would simply gently warn him off. Tell him not to speak to him again. 

 

But Fóli isn't bad. He'd know if he is bad or evil. Surely, Da wouldn't mind. 

 

Yet, he can't help but think of the things Da said. 'Thieves have enemies.' he'd once said shortly after Mammy had died. 'Not always by their own doings.' There are so many dangers. But this is Ered Luin! Outside of the grey walls that protect the village, there are dangers aplenty! Inside, it even has its moments. But why should he let one small chance of danger ruin his growing friendship with Fóli? 

 

But he worries for the dangers. He is sure that he came close to seeing another dead person today. Óin and he both thought he'd blocked out their father's death. Now, he remembers. He feels a hard lump in his throat and hugs himself, feeling colder and colder. Again, he longs for Da to come around a corner, to be waiting at home for him. But he knows that this is a wish that shall never again come true. 

 

* * *

 

 Óin comes home early. Sometimes, his mentor, Missus Lazula, sends him off early. He stops by the butchers to buy meat for dinner and goes home. He buys pork. He remembers Mammy making roast pork and she even left him her cookbook. His nadadith will be pleased! 

 

When he gets in, he puts the meat away and wonders where his brother is. He hears breathing from the living room. He grins. "Did someone fall asleep?"

 

There isn't an answer and he chuckles. Until he enters the room and sees his brother curled up on their da's armchair, limply leaning against the backrest, little tears travelling down his face. 

 

"What is it?" Óin demands, already thinking up the methods of torture and murder he'll unleash upon the godless bastard who dared upset his sibling. 

 

"D-Da!"

 

What? Óin blinks. "Da?"

 

"I remember..." His little brother curls up even more, giving Óin enough room to sit beside him and hug him. "Oh, nadad! I remember him. He was so cold..!"

 

He should've expected this day to come. Even sturdy dams will, some day, break. He brings him closer, letting him sob on his shoulder, letting him cling tightly to him. He doesn't say anything. His sibling needs this release. Soon, all the words and cries are spent. He holds him, kisses his head gently, and wipes his face dry with his sleeve. The poor sod. 

 

"What happened?" He asks, gently rocking the sodden, sniffling heap clinging around his waist. 

 

"My friend Fóli nearly got into a fight. I thought... I-I-I thought..." There's a shiver and he buries his head into the crook of his shoulder. 

 

"How did it end?"

 

"They didn't fight, but they nearly did, nadad!"

 

Óin thinks about asking why Fóli and this other Dwarf (well he hopes it was another Dwarf and not a Man) nearly fought, but decides against it. There's 1001 reasons that Dwarves argue and fight with each other and there's no point in causing further distress. 

 

His brother looks up at him with sore eyes. Óin gently ruffles his hair. "He's alright, nadadith. As for Adad..." Here, he pauses. He doesn't know exactly what to say. "It was painless for him. You were close to him that night and he always did like you best-" 

 

"No! If he didn't like you, he wouldn't have let you have me."

 

"Yeah? If I had a child who shared my hair colour, he'd certainly be my favourite."

 

To Óin's relief, this makes him smile. 

 

"Does it hurt?" Glóin asks. "Dying?"

 

"I haven't had much experience with the act, but I don't think it hurts, no. It probably just feels like going to sleep."

 

"He wouldn't have known."

 

"No."

 

"Nadad?"

 

"Yes? "

 

"I'm glad he didn't die alone. I just wish I hadn't awaken to find him gone."

 

"I know, little brother." Óin says. "I wish it, too."

 

"Is he with Mammy?"

 

"I think he would have had a few rather cross words with Mahal if he wasn't."

 

"And Bam-Bam?"

 

Óin can't help smirking. "Yes, he's with Bam-Bam."

 

"And Aunt Fríja?"

 

"Yes." Óin says, brushing at his fringe. "He's with Mammy and Bam-Bam and Aunt Fríja and Grandfather and Nana and all the others who died before him."

 

"He's not lonely?"

 

"How can he be? He'll have perhaps hundreds of our descendants with him."

 

Glóin's eyes are large and wide as he thinks of all these people surrounding their father. He seems to feel better already and Óin gently slides him off the sofa. "Go and wash your face, nadadith. You'll feel better."

 

* * *

 

His face doesn't feel so sore after he splashes water on it. He feels so tired. He goes back to the living room and clambers onto the armchair to be closeby to his brother. Óin says something about a "surprise for dinner", but he's so unfocused that he dozes off before he can even ask about this surprise.

 

All he wants for now, is to sleep close to his brother. 

* * *

 

“When was the last time you slept?” Dwalin asks of his clearly exhausted prince. There are the beginning of bags under his piercing blue eyes and his thick dark tresses are messy like he has been running his hands through them.

“I was up early.”

“What made you rise early?”

Thorin responds by passing him a square of parchment. Upon it is a seal of silver, placed into it are mother of pearl slides like hardened petals, arranged into the shape of a small white flower. It has not been opened, but the edges are bent and slightly torn and he knows that Thorin had barely been keeping himself from opening it.

“Why haven’t you read it?”

“I don’t know what’s in it. She may have sent more than words.”

“For Mahal’s sake…” Dwalin feels in his pocket and draws out his hunting knife. Slitting open the paper, narrowly missing the flowered seal, he tears out the contents and looks them over. There is no residue of poison, there are no tricks. Only a flowing script etched on the smooth paper. “See? Read, go on.”

Thorin accepted the parchment and read from it, his lips mouthing the words as they always do when he reads. It had driven his father mad for it could easily lead to secrets being revealed, but Thorin reads like this quickly, so quickly that Dwalin doubts he ever could reveal anything. “They’re here.”

“What? _Her?!”_ Dwalin feels for his sword handle, but Thorin is shaking his head.

“No. We’re safe from her as ever. She won’t leave her home. But the clan are here. She has warned us.”

Dwalin frowns. “Why would she do that?”

Wordlessly, Thorin shows him the parchment. On it are the words;

_'Protect them.'_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
